


Alcohol and Blacklists

by altertalian_doodle



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: England is a raging drunk, Francis is a bar owner, Knights who say Ni, Lavender Scare, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Red Scare, References to Monty Python, RusAme Secret Santa 2017, but only one, second person shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 09:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13211184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altertalian_doodle/pseuds/altertalian_doodle
Summary: Rusame Secret Santa for analyze-a-nation on Tumblr.A mess of a thing  during the 1950s, in which Ivan is a CIA operative and Alfred part of the FBI.





	Alcohol and Blacklists

He was a sniper in the Soviet army, not quite eighteen when they carted him off to the remains of the Second World War, to Berlin. He’s heard rumors of Comrade Stalin, he lost his will to return home, and so one early morning he deserted the army camp and walked out to the American embassy, in West Berlin. In exchange for protection, he would be a civil servant of the CIA.

* * *

 

Your name is Ivan Braginsky, former Red soldier and current hitman for the CIA, though your past has been shedding more light ever since a certain senator started sprouting his shit. 

Ever since you came to the US, people have been giving you the side eye. Though you left the USSR for good, they still don’t trust Russians. Not even the CIA, who still runs conditionings on you while you to take out potential Communists, along with other criminals.

The year is 1954, and you have been keeping tabs on a potential drug dealer for almost three months now. Usually, once you obtain enough evidence, they would call in somebody from the FBI to detain the guy, but with the Mafia, it’s tricky. They told you to kill him, once you have the chance.

And so on this cloudy night, you’re in Little Italy, on the roof of some office building with your rifle aimed at some mafioso’s head. You’d think there would be hitmen stationed around to protect him, but apparently not on roofs. The rifle’s magazine is full, the gun’s in good condition, but there’s static coming through your walkie talkie. 

“Braginsky, you’re needed at the headquarters.”

You groan and put down the gun. “I was about to shoot someone, tell me later.”

“They want to interrogate you.”

“Nyet. The night is cloudy, the roofs are clear of guards, and there is a certain Italian drug dealer I need to take out.” You mute the device, before you can hear any objections that are likely to follow.

Mr. Feliciano Vargas is still sitting at his desk, receiving calls of some sort. Good.

You aim your rifle and shoot. If you looked, you would see the glass window shattering, his brains splattered on the far wall. But you have a boss to answer, and it wouldn’t be long until someone figures out the mafioso is dead.

A few hours later, your boss Kirkland is fuming over why you muted your walkie talkie. You’ve cleaned up and gotten your debriefing, and apparently the anti-Communist government masses has set their suspicions on you. You’re a bit worried, but not much. The CIA will cover you, hopefully, as you’re the one carrying out their most complicated missions.

You are currently sitting in a conference room, your hair still damp from the shower. Next to you is Arthur Kirkland, perhaps the most insufferable employer you’ve met. Across is some guy you’ve probably seen once or twice. Jones, you think his name was. He’s rather attractive.

“Uh, so we’re all good here, right?”

You fiddle with the sleeves of your dress shirt. “Yes.”

Kirkland takes his things and leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. You raise an eyebrow at that, but say nothing.

“Okay, so, I’m Alfred Jones. Of the FBI. You’re on the Soviet blacklist, but since you’re apparently a loyal CIA operative and stuff, we’ve decided to interrogate you and all that. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s start with your childhood. What were your opinions on the Soviet Union?”

You pause to think. “I was born in Leningrad. We shared the apartment with two other families, the librarian’s husband would always leave his dirty socks at the door. He needed a lesson in etiquette.”

“The war began when I was… Ten, I think. I grew up during the siege. We would have class in the bomb shelters, sometimes, if we ran out of food Mama would kill a rat to eat. I promised her I would join the army. She died of typhoid when I was fifteen” You pause to collect your thoughts. “They sent me to Berlin. East Berlin, I mean, to guard the border or shoot people, I don’t know. I heard rumors there, whoever returned back home to Russia would be arrested on the spot. They didn’t have a fair trial, nothing, so I deserted with some friends.”

You take a breath. “Go on” he says.

“They… did not make it. I didn’t know what to do, so I went to the American embassy. For their protection they said I would be working for the CIA. I don’t think they trust me enough to spy on any communists or anything, so I am mostly going around to collect information and deal with crime syndicates and such.”

“... And your opinion on the USSR?”

“It is a mess there. I don’t know how everyone manages anymore, but I hope they pull through.” You wince internally, that’ll probably be a mark of suspicion. So much for being honest.

He doesn’t say anything, but writes something on his notepad and looks you over. “...Pretty.”

“What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean, pretty?”He seems a little flustered. “I mean, you, uh, suffered pretty much back when you, uh, lived there. Next thing, actually, you know what, just tell me about yourself.”

“Well, I do what you would call the ‘dirty work’ of the CIA, taking out gangs and things with the local police, looking over the files of the blacklisted...“

“I mean your hopes. What you love.” Who, he almost seems to say.

“I, ah, that doesn’t seems necessary to see if I’m communist or not.”

“It isn’t. But I would like to know more about you.”

“Ah.” You fall silent.

He looks at you. His eyes are a lovely shade of blue. Light freckles dot his cheekbones.It occurs to you that you’re staring, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“I... want to live in peace. No shells exploding in the streets, a quiet community where nobody suspects you are a Communist even though you specifically ran away from the country.” You catch a faint smile on his lips. “Where the food is not overpriced and I can love freely.”

“Doesn’t seem like this country fits your standards, either.”

“Mm.” Lavender Scare. They said homosexuals supported Communists, quite ridiculous considering that they were sent off to the gulags, too.

“Are you afraid?”

“A little bit, but there are more important matters to be afraid of. You?”

“Yes.” He holds your gaze, before sliding you a business card. “I think you’re a perfectly moral, democratic Russian guy. The hard thing is convincing everyone that you are. Here’s my number, if you ever need to call me up for something.” He gathers up his things and walks out the door.

You take the card.

_ Alfred F. Jones, FBI Anti-Communist Investigation Unit. _

You pocket the little square of paper. Kirkland nods at you on your way out.

* * *

 

Your name is Alfred Jones, graduate of West Point and current FBI investigator. You’re in hiding from the homophobic higher-ups of the government. You love your job. And you think you’re falling in love with a Russian CIA operative. Braginsky, you think his name was.

Currently, you are at a gay bar with some of your friends, downing shot after shot of whiskey. “Gilbert, Gil, man, what do I do? I’m in love with a guy, he’s in the CIA, and Russian, on top of that.” 

Gilbert sips his beer in that pseudo-thoughtful way of his. “How about, you take that hunk, call up your brother, and run off to Canada? Seems like a more gay-friendly place there.” He snorts.

“I’m serious, Gil. It’s either my job or him. And I’m not even sure if he’s gay.”

“Jones, you can deal with it. Call him up or something, if he’s straight and gonna snitch you’ve got the power to call him Commie.”

“... I gave ‘im my number, Gil. Not the other way aroun.” You down another shot. “And I don’th think I c’n do tha to him.”

“Can’t do anything about it, then. I’m just an asexual cop with a beer.”

Five shots later, a slightly intoxicated East German drags your extremely intoxicated ass to your apartment. “‘is EYES, Gil, ith ‘ish eeyyeess, ‘s soo beautehfou…”

“I’m leaving your gay ass here. Go look at his file if you’re so into his butt.”

“‘Eh shed aeyess… Maaaybeh ‘e ‘asha nice ash too…”

Needless to say, you come into work next morning with a raging hangover. They’ve assigned you to go investigate the office building Ivan’s working at, so you don’t have much of a problem. He nods to you from his cubicle, some suspects’ file in hand. 

“Who’s it?”

“Laurantis, Toris. Emigrated from Lithuania.”

“You’re going after him?”

“Of course not. He is blacklisted.” He takes a sip of coffee. “I believe he isn’t a spy. According to the file, quite shifty, shell-shock from the war.”

“They’ll probably go after him anyway.”

“Probably.”

An awkward silence follows. “Are you free tonight?”

“Yes.”

You choose your words carefully. “Maybe… Have a drink at the English Rose? After work?”

But he seems to understand what you mean. “Why not?”

“Yes?” You grab his coffee and start walking off.

“Yes.”

* * *

 

He’s waiting for you at the door, slightly nervous. “I feel as if I’m a princess and you are a suitor who wants to run away with me.” You joke.

“Pretty much. I’m the prince who would give up everything so you and me could live together.”

“Would you?”

He pauses, as if to think it over. “I don’t know. I love my job here, but at the same time it’s like a consolation prize for me being unfit for the army. And basically everyone else, if they knew, they…”

They would consider him the same as you. They could blacklist him, take away his job. “I know.”

He leads you in silence.

The English Rose happens to be run by a Frenchman,and what happens to be a bad-tempered Brit staking his claim on the bar stool. Not so much a bar as a cafe.

“That’s Francis. Basically your run of the mill Frenchman. I know him from a while back, he has a love-hate relationship with Arth over there.” He points to the drunkard.

You raise your eyebrows. “...That’s Kirkland.”

“Yeah. He frequents this place. I usually go here if I want a few shots of whiskey.”

“Or many.” You add, remembering the hangover he nursed this morning. “You took my coffee, too.”

“It was a good coffee.”

“You are paying for the drinks.”

He nods in a pseudo-sagely manner. “What is it for the lady? Straight vodka?”

You play along, smiling. “The lady would very much enjoy a bottle of Smirnov.”

“You heard him, Bonnefoy. I’ll take some Jack Daniels.” Bonnefoy rises up from his spot next to Kirkland and starts pouring the shots. To young love, he whispers, placing a rose next to your shot glass. Alfred shushes him.

You pour a shot of vodka. “We seem to be, ah, beating around the shrubbery here, so I will be direct. With liquid courage.” You down a shot. It burns. “You are an attractive person.”

Kirkland perks up at the sound of ‘shrubbery’ and mutters something about “knights” and “saying Ni!” in his drunken haze. You ignore him.

“Oh really.” His hand stops on its journey to his bottle of whiskey. You start to panic, just a little. Okay, a lot actually, but you showed little.

“... And I may or may not find you attractive.” And you may or may not be royally screwed. Nevermind the shot glass, you start drinking from the bottle.

He reaches for your hand. Squeezes it, ever so gently. “Let me tell you something, Ivy. I’m at a crossroads here. I wanna keep my job. I wanna be accepted here. I want you.” He drinks straight from the whiskey bottle. “And considering where Jack is taking me, I’m going with you.”

“But the government.”

“FUck the government.” He gulps down some more of the liquor.

“Don’t do this for me. You have talked to me once, yesterday. I am not that important in the grand scheme of things.”

“Ivyyy, I’m tellin’ y’thiss…Fuck time f’ames, fuck ‘ciety.” You gently wrench the bottle from his hand. “I love you.”

“So you do.” You down the rest of the vodka, hangovers be damned. “You are drunk, and you cannot possibly think it through rationally, at the moment. I have given myself more of a problem, because... I love you too....”

Be careful out on the streets, Francis says. He has an extra couch upstairs if you aren’t up for it. You can handle it, you say. There is more hell to come.

You hail a taxi to drive you back home, Alfred in your arms. The driver looks at you weird, but says nothing. Perhaps passing it off as you, the merciful friend, taking him back to his apartment.

You tuck him into your bed. “Our relationship, and our legal fate will be discussed tomorrow, when you can think properly.” He mutters something. You shush him with a peck to the forehead. “люблю вас.”

You take the couch. Life will come to be insufferable, that much you know. You will suffer through it with him.

**Author's Note:**

> The Russian was via Google Translate. I cringe in sympathy to all native Russian speakers.  
> люблю вас- love you
> 
> Now allow me to reascend to the void. Comments>kudos, but both will keep me satisfied.


End file.
